


Eye of the Storm

by RowWithAChipNPin



Series: Post Mission [4]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Hangover, M/M, Mild Language, Morning After, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowWithAChipNPin/pseuds/RowWithAChipNPin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gokudera wakes up the night after Tsuna's 16th b-day party with a hangover and realizes he slept with a certain Rain Guardian…who wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Will he accept that Yamamoto loves him, or will this shatter any chances for a relationship? Prequel to "One Without The Other"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

Light seeped in under the curtains of the bedroom's only window, spilling over the carpet. The dim sunlight was muted by the heavy, thick layer of clouds outside, leaving it just bright enough to tell the people of Namimori that it was morning. The light outlined the figure in the bed, alone among the messy sheets.

Other than the clothes strewn across the floor erratically, the room was in perfect, almost OCD, order: books and CDs were stuffed into the bookshelf to the point of bursting, all in alphabetical order by genre and series; the clothes in the closet were organized by season, type, and color; shoes lined up in rows. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place; it was the same with the rest of the small flat. The color scheme was black and white throughout the small living room, kitchen, and bathroom.

The young man lying amidst the messy bed was buck-naked and only partially covered by the black bed sheets. Gokudera Hayato noticed three things when he woke up: one, he had the mother of all headaches; two, his memories of the previous night were blurry and indistinct; and three, there was a deep, throbbing pain in his ass that informed him that he would not be walking straight for quite some time. His muscles ached, his throat was dry as the Sahara Desert and on fire, his tongue felt fuzzy in his mouth, and he desired nothing more than to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, as he snuggled back into his pillow and willed himself to fall back into Dreamland, Morpheus dropkicked his butt back into the world of the living.

Groaned, he forced his eyes open and immediately regretted it; it felt like there were a thousand poison-tipped needles being stabbed into his brain, and the hammer behind his eyes intensified tenfold. He yelped in a very un-Gokudera-like manner. _Oh fuckin' perfect; a hangover._ By hook or by crook, at the Tenth's sixteenth birthday party last night, he'd gotten drunk; somehow, he had the nagging feeling that the Bucking Bronco had something to do with it. He threw an arm over his eyes, but the damage was done.

The clock on the nightstand informed him in harsh, glowing green digits that it was eight forty-five in the morning. Still sleepy and not yet completely awake, Gokudera forced himself to get out of bed. Lightning bolts of pain shot up his back and down his legs when he stood, radiating out from his rear end. If the pain was any indication, whatever he'd drank last night had been far from un-alcoholic and had somehow led to a night of debauchery.

As he limped down the hall to the bathroom, he searched his mind for any clues. Everything seemed to have bled together in a long, alcohol-laden haze. His memory was sketchy, the night before a fuzzy memory of two bodies mingled together, becoming one. He distantly heard sounds coming from the kitchen—dishes clinking together, the microwave beeping, muffled swearing—but he couldn't identify the voice.

There was his jacket, lying on the floor in the hall. He'd passed his T-shirt and jewelry outside his bedroom door; his pants and boxers were on the floor from his door to his bed. His head throbbed like mad and his mouth tasted like Tsuna's chocolate cake, cigarettes, beer, and…sushi? Whatever had happened was lost until it wanted to show itself again, and he suspected that he wouldn't make any progress by picking.

He staggered into the tiny bathroom and braced himself against the counter with both hands, leaning on it heavily. A surge of nausea and vertigo swelled over him, and he swallowed the urge to vomit, unsuccessfully; he just barely got the toilet seat up before he was on his knees, emptying his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He heaved, emptying his stomach of cake, pizza, chips, and whatever else he'd consumed the night before. He groaned and puked again, body trembling. The stench of vomit filled his nose, and he spat out a glob of phlegm. A few minutes later, there was nothing left for him to throw up and he was only dry heaving; his stomach was empty but his body refused to stop. Finally, the heaving dispersed and his muscles stopped cramping and started to relax. He leaned back against the wall, spitting residue out of his mouth.

Wincing, he stood up and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like crap—his hair was a rat's nest, there were dark, bruise-like smudges under his eyes that made him look vaguely like a tired panda, and…was he paler than usual? He retrieved a container of analgesics from the cabinet and downed about twice the recommended amount before starting the shower. The scalding hot water, like he usually took, would probably just aggravate the hangover, so he made sure the water was only lukewarm before he stepped under it.

He let the water run over him, soothing his aching muscles and his hangover, and washing away the last of his fatigue. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, grimacing as his joints popped; just what had they done last night anyway? That train of thought brought up a truckload of questions that his sleep-addled mind had decided were too stressful for the newly-awakened. The first and foremost—and by far the most important—was how was he going to face Yamamoto?

How had it started? _Who_ had started it? Most of it was just a blurred memory of their two bodies moving together, limbs tangling and tongues dancing, the sound of skin slapping against skin. All the things that had happened last night, what would they amount to? As he tried desperately to remember the facts, he found a shred of clarity beneath the fuzzy memories of them having sex.

_Gokudera stumbled, his foot catching on an uneven patch of sidewalk, and he would have faceplanted into the hard cement had Yamamoto not reached out and grabbed his arm. The baseball fanatic pulled Gokudera upright, and the momentum sent Gokudera tumbling into Yamamoto's arms, his face pressed against the taller boy's neck. Yamamoto laughed, helping Gokudera steady himself, and kissed him soundly on the mouth, cupping his face in one hand. Gokudera moaned and kissed back, his hands burying themselves in the short dark hair and eyes fluttering shut. Tongues battled for dominance as they stood there on the sidewalk, trying to devour each other. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring, Yamamoto slipped his other hand up Gokudera's shirt, splaying his fingers across the well-toned stomach. Gokudera shuddered as Yamamoto's warm, calloused hand made contact with cold flesh, and Yamamoto took the opportunity to nip the pianist's lower lip, eliciting a gasp and a sharp tug of his hair. The baseball idiot smirked and slid his hand up Gokudera's chest, tweaking a nipple and rolling it between his fingers, bringing it to hardness, his mouth never leaving Gokudera's._

When he stepped out a few minutes later, he was feeling a bit better—the pills had managed to chase away the bulk of his headache, and the shower had alleviated the dull, throbbing pain in his muscles. With his hair dripping water down his bare chest and only a towel around his waist, Gokudera stepped out of the bathroom and hurried back to his room to get dressed; there was no frikkin way he was going to face the yakubaka half-naked, especially after the night of debauchery they'd just had! Drying his hair mostly unsuccessfully with a damp towel, Gokudera hastily threw on a clean pair of boxers, and then the first pair of jeans and the first clean T-shirt he could grab. He pulled his hair back in a short ponytail, took a deep breath, and steeled himself for the confrontation.

He could take the easy way out, and boy, was he sorely tempted to; he could throw his bombs and yell at the top of his lungs and curse Yamamoto Takeshi into next week. But he knew that if he took that route, the yakubaka would only laugh and chide him lightheartedly for "playing with fireworks indoors."

Besides, he really was quite fond of his apartment.

Nothing about the idiot would have changed overnight. He always saw the good in people, and either ignored and couldn't comprehend the bad, and unwisely trusted everyone with little to no reason. He was warm and foolishly friendly to anyone and everyone. He was still the naïve, blind, hopeless idiot obsessed with baseball he had been two days ago, two weeks, two months. In summary, he was everything Gokudera Hayato was not.

Gokudera knew that he would never be able to look at the baseball idiot the same way ever again, not after what happened. Yamamoto had so easily broken through his defenses, something only the Boss had been able to do, though how he'd managed to do that, Gokudera didn't know. In his drunken state, Gokudera had probably let his guard down, and as usual, the baseball idiot had gone bumbling in where he wasn't wanted. What was even worse, Gokudera hadn't only let down his guard, he'd allowed the stupid baseball idiot to top him. He'd allowed Yamamoto to take him, to dominate him in the most intimate way. He would acknowledge, secretly, in his own head only, that Yamamoto Takeshi had taken him to the very peak of pleasure and pushed him over the edge; he had made Gokudera scream and writhe under him, calling his name as he arched up against him and tumbled over the edge of pleasure into the abyss of ecstasy and passion.

Could his pride accept that?

_What the fuck?_ Gokudera shook his head and scolded himself, trying very hard to ignore the heat in his cheeks. What was he doing, worrying himself like that? It was just the stupid yakubaka; there was nothing to be nervous about.

So why did he feel like some ditsy, dizzy schoolgirl with her first crush?


	2. Taming the Wild Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamamoto's POV

Light shone through the windows of Gokudera's apartment, spilling over the living room carpet and illuminating the kitchen. The dim sunlight was muted by the heavy, thick layer of clouds outside, leaving it just bright enough to tell the people of Namimori that it was morning.

Yamamoto Takeshi hummed off-key as he put the finishing touches on the breakfast he'd prepared in Gokudera's kitchen. While most of his culinary skills involved sushi, he'd managed to whip together something he hoped would persuade Gokudera to hold off on attacking him. He'd made scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and cinnamon buns he'd gotten at the convenience store on the corner, and he'd even figured out how Gokudera's coffee maker worked (it had been a life-or-death battle for awhile, but Takeshi finally triumphed in the third inning). He heard Gokudera leave his bedroom and then another door closed, followed by the sound of retching.

Emotion welled up inside Takeshi, a tidal wave of shame, guilt, regret, and love, and he forced himself to refrain from rushing to Gokudera's side. He didn't regret what had happened; what he regretted was sleeping with Gokudera when he was drunk. Yamamoto had known that Gokudera had had several drinks of the champagne Dino had brought, but he hadn't realized just how drunk Gokudera was until the silveret called out Yamamoto's first name during sex. Never—not even during sex—would Gokudera _ever_ call him Takeshi; that was when Yamamoto realized that the alcohol had affected Gokudera more than he'd thought.

That realization also brought about the unwelcome but undeniable fact that Yamamoto had taken advantage of Gokudera when his decision-making abilities were seriously impaired. Yamamoto had ignored the signs of the other boy's inebriation—the slurred speech, the impaired balance, the blood-shot eyes and flushed face—and let himself fall prey to his own desire for the pale pianist's flesh. They hadn't even made it halfway to Gokudera's apartment when they started kissing and groping; by the time they managed to get through his door, they both had raging erections and couldn't keep their hands off each other.

If Yamamoto had known that Gokudera was drunk out of his mind, he wouldn't have taken advantage of the situation. They were walking home together and Gokudera tripped, and Yamamoto automatically caught him. Then with Gokudera pressed up against him, his face only inches away and his breath hot against Yamamoto's neck…Takeshi had been defenseless against those beautiful jade green eyes and porcelain pale skin and soft-looking, plump, delicious lips.

So he'd closed the distance between them and kissed Gokudera, claiming those tempting lips with his own, and Gokudera had kissed back. Takeshi had dared to hope that maybe Gokudera—that maybe _Hayato_ —felt the same way.

But now…now that he knew Gokudera was drunk and not in control, he didn't know how he could face the silveret again in good conscious. Last night had been his first time, and if his reactions were any indicator, it had been Gokudera's first time as well. It wasn't enough that he'd taken advantage of Gokudera, but he'd taken his innocence too. Now he would have to face Gokudera, who may or may not remember _exactly_ what happened but would certainly be able to piece together that he'd been the bottom in a round of passionate, clumsy sex. Could he live with that guilt?

Then there was the dilemma of the Gokudera. How would he react when he discovered that he'd slept with Yamamoto, even if he had been drunk? Gokudera hated him—he called him yakubaka, "baseball idiot," and he never meant it as a compliment—and would be absolutely furious when he learned that Yamamoto had taken advantage of him.

Maybe Takeshi could pretend that he had been just as intoxicated as Gokudera, then they could pass it off as just a drunken night of debauchery. They wouldn't be the first friends to get drunk out of their minds and sleep together. But then that would be just one more thing for Yamamoto to feel guilty over.

Yamamoto knew that there was no way Gokudera would love him—he _hated_ him—, but sometimes…sometimes he let himself pretend that his beloved silveret was _his;_ sometimes he let himself pretend that he could love him back _._

When they were walking home from school—alone because Hibari had "kidnapped" Tsuna again—Yamamoto pretended that Gokudera was walking with him because he wanted to spend time with him, not because he had nothing better to do. Yamamoto pretended that when Gokudera smiled at Tsuna, that beautiful, stunning smile, was meant for him. When they were hanging out at Tsuna's and the brunet went to get them drinks, Takeshi pretended that there was more in the silence than just tension and disgust from the other boy's end, and unrequited love from his own.

It only hurt when he remembered that he was only pretending.

He stood back and admired his work; he could hear the water shut off, and a door close moments after that. He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Gokudera would be out in a few minutes, then everything would go to hell in a handbasket. He smiled sadly at the memory of holding Gokudera in his arms, the pale Italian curled up against him, head resting on his shoulder and an arm around his waist.

It hadn't been easy to tame that wild cat, but he'd done it. He was the soothing rain, after all, and didn't rain and storms go together? He chuckled to himself sardonically; when Gokudera killed him, he would die with the satisfying knowledge that he'd been the one to tame Smokin' Bomb Hayato, to bring him screaming to orgasm for the first time.

He had the satisfaction of knowing that no matter who came next, he would _always_ be the first.

By the time Gokudera appeared in the doorway, face still flushed from the shower and beautiful silver hair dark with water, Takeshi had schooled his face into his usual cheerful grin, hoping it reached his eyes. Judging from the look on Gokudera's face, it didn't.

"Good morning!" he sang, wondering for the first time how he looked to Gokudera—wearing the wrinkled clothes from the day before, standing in _his_ kitchen with food spread out on the counter, grinning like they hadn't just slept with each other.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He mentally shrugged. _Too late to turn back now._

He laughed as he motioned to the kitchen counter, and the spread of food. "I made breakfast. I didn't know what you'd like, so I guess I kinda went nuts," he said, grinning and rubbing the back of his head.

Gokudera stared at him, wary. The bomber obviously remembered what had happened between them; they'd slept together in a drunken and ardent frenzy (well, _Gokudera_ was drunk, that must count for something). What would happen next? Where would they go from there? Would they pretend it had never happened— _could_ they pretend it never happened?

And why was he so scared of that prospect?

He stood back as Gokudera hesitantly grabbed a plate and shoveled portions of food onto it with a plastic fork, then filled a mug with coffee—black, Yamamoto made a mental note. As Gokudera retreated to the table, Yamamoto filled his own plate and poured himself a cup of orange juice, then joined the silveret.

They ate in silence for several minutes, a time that was filled with the sounds of eating, silverware clinking together, and the occasional slush of a drink. Finally, Yamamoto broke the uncomfortable silence.

"We have to talk about it, you know."

Gokudera stabbed a pile of eggs and growled, avoiding the other boy's eyes. Evidently, he was looking forward to this talk just as much as Yamamoto. Still, they had to clear the air before they did anything else, so he pressed on.

"How much of last night do you remember?"

Gokudera glared at him across the table and Yamamoto winced. He remembered enough to be pissed as all get out, apparently.

"Right," Takeshi said, sighing. This was going to be a little harder than he thought. Maybe it was like going swimming in a really cold pool. You just had to take the plunge and hope it didn't shock the pee out of you.

"Look, I'm sorry." He held up his hand to stop Gokudera from interrupting. "I'm not sorry about what happened between us. I'm sorry that it happened under those circumstances. I didn't know that you were drunk when I kissed you, and I didn't realize just how many drinks you'd had until _after_ we'd slept together. If I'd known earlier that you were drunk, I never would have kissed you and this wouldn't have happened, and if I could go back and change last night, I would. But, I can't, and we'll both have to accept that what happened last night happened."

He paused for a moment, letting it sink in, before he added softly, "But I don't regret making love to you."

He watched Gokudera levelly, waiting for his response. While Gokudera processed what he'd said, Yamamoto surveyed his love. His sterling silver hair was slipping out of the short ponytail Gokudera had anchored in it; Takeshi knew that Gokudera had been taunted as a little kid for his strange hair, but Yamamoto loved it. It was unique and beautiful, and he adored the way it sparkled when the sunlight hit it just the right way, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his nose in it. His disarming jade green eyes were narrowed, their stunning green dark with fatigue and fury. His shirt was slipping off his shoulder, revealing pale skin marred by hickies; a swell of pride filled Yamamoto, knowing that he had given them to the Italian.

Finally, just when Yamamoto was convinced he would go insane if he had to wait much longer, Gokudera stood up and walked around the table to stand in front of Yamamoto, who jumped to his feet to keep eye contact. _Please, oh please, don't be too angry with me,_ he prayed silently.

_CRACK!_

His eyes widened, and he unconsciously stepped back as his hand went to his stinging cheek. Gokudera glared at him, his hand still lifted, as if he was debating whether to slap the baseball idiot again. Yamamoto stared at him, almost unbelieving that Gokudera had actually struck him. He closed his eyes, scolding himself for hoping for more. Of course this striking (no pun intended) angel of music wouldn't love him back; how could he have gotten his hopes up?

Then, inexplicably, the beautiful angel standing in front of him stepped forward and closed the distance between them, smashing their lips together. His hands knotted in Yamamoto's rumpled T-shirt, pulling him closer. Yamamoto grinned into the kiss, and paid for it when Gokudera bit his bottom lip savagely. Yamamoto wrapped his arms around the pianist's waist and tilted his head, trying to find a good angle.

Their lips moved together; Yamamoto felt Gokudera asking for entrance—no, demanding for entrance—and happily granted it. Unlike the night before, when Yamamoto had led the kisses, Gokudera wasn't making it easy for the baseball player. Their tongues fought for dominance, a passionate dance that Gokudera had no intention of losing. Yamamoto humored the other and relinquished control, letting Gokudera take the lead. He didn't know what was happening, but he was sure as hell not complaining. Gokudera's taste was not sweet, not all that appealing, but as Yamamoto ran his tongue through Gokudera's cigarette-smoke flavored mouth, he found that the taste was growing on him.

Before the kiss turned into something more, something he suspected Gokudera wasn't ready for, Yamamoto pulled back, grinning stupidly down at the beautiful creature in his arms.

"So you're not gonna hit me again?" he asked. It was the first thing that had come to mind, and probably not the most romantic thing to say, but it made Gokudera chuckle.

"We'll see," Gokudera said smirking. "Just keep your hands out of my pants." He paused, looking thoughtful. "For now," he amended.

Yamamoto laughed and kissed Gokudera's nose. "Gotcha."


End file.
